The Appearance of Respectability
by EstelRaca
Summary: Enjolras has his mother's hair and his father's eyes, and he slowly learns to navigate the world without sacrificing either. Written for Barricade Day, for the prompt "Enjolras with really really really long hair".


**Author's Note: ** This story was written for Barricade Day, for the prompt "Enjolras with really really really long hair". Warning for mild violence, description of illness, and brief mention of attempted rape.**  
**

_The Appearance of Respectability_

Enjolras' mother dies when he is five years old.

He remembers the week leading up to her death. He has precious few memories from prior to that, though, and none are of her well. She is always the ill woman reclining on a blanket in the shade, whose smile lights his father's eyes in ways nothing else can. She is the still form gasping in the bed, her every breath agony, or doubled up in a pain so great it bring tears to her eyes, every touch against her skin torture. She is the force that controls his father like strings control a marionette, her health and doctors dictating the family's dining, travel, lives.

For that week, though, she is also a woman, his mother, and his father's tearful, begging command is for Enjolras to be kind to her.

He does not know what is meant by those words, those simple, complex words. He does not strive to be cruel to the woman. Is a lack of cruelty kindness? Or is there something else that his father desires from him, something he doesn't understand?

He does not know what it means to die, either, though he knows that's what she is doing. That is the word that echoes through the house, haunting whispers that are always hushed as soon as he draws near, and it infuriates him, not knowing.

How is he to decide on actions if he doesn't _know_?

She asks to see him as soon as the doctors have left the day that they start whispering _death_ at the edges of his hearing.

"My son. Come here." His mother's words are hoarse whispers. Her face is frightening, the top layers of her skin peeling back in great swaths, red sores beneath the too-pale tissue.

He goes to her side anyway. If no one else will answer him, perhaps she will. "Mother. What does dying mean?"

The hand that had been reaching toward him hesitates, then continues on, fever-hot fingers closing around his hand. "It means I will be free. It means I will no longer be trapped in this slowly-collapsing body. And it also means I will no longer be able to be here, for your father or you."

"You're going away?" He frowns, clambering up on the edge of the bed. His mother's frame is very slight, now, barely heavier than his, her bones showing starkly. "Why aren't we coming with you?"

"My body is staying here." His mother's hand strokes his cheek. "All men have two parts to them, a body and a soul. The soul is what drives the person, what defines them, what makes them who they are. My words, my beliefs, they are from my soul. To be seen by other living men, though, all souls must have a body. And the body that I have been living with is weak. It cannot contain my soul any more, and so my soul will leave, and you will not see me again."

Enjolras considers the words carefully. "Why can't you simply find a new body?"

"There are some people who believe I will." She smiles, and blood oozes from her cracked upper lip. "There are some who believe I will go to heaven, or to hell. I simply know that I cannot stay here anymore. I would not even regret it, if it didn't mean leaving you and your father alone."

Enjolras tilts his head and frowns. "We can't be alone if we're together."

His mother laughs, a sound that becomes a cough and then a harsh sob before being silenced through sheer force of will. A servant hurries into the room, but is waved away. "Ah, son, sometimes the people who are most alone are those surrounded by others. But you are right. You are an intelligent, brave child, and your father is a good man. You will do well together. You will give him something to live for, and he will give you something to become. If my body could give us only one child, at least it seems to have packed all the best parts of myself into you."

Enjolras sighs. "I still don't understand."

"You will. Watch the world, and learn, and you will understand." Slowly, moving like an old woman, she sits up against the headboard of the bed and pats the space beside her. "Sit with me. Let me hold you."

He moves slowly, uncertain, frightened by her appearance and afraid of his fear and angry that he still doesn't understand. But he sits by her side, and her too-warm arm settles across his shoulders as her hand reaches out to toy with his hair.

"You have hair like I did, once." The words are wistful. "You were born with a full head of curly blond hair, and you never lost it. A matched set, you and I, that's what your father said, and it would have been lovely if we could be… could have been… but I will not ramble. I've not the time for it. Would you like me to tell you stories? Would you like me to tell you about your father, and your country, and the places he and I have been?"

"Yes." Enjolras can't contain his excitement, his hands clapping together. "Yes, please."

His mother talks for hours, and for once his father doesn't come and tell him that he should leave, that he should let her rest, that he shouldn't tire her.

He doesn't know who falls asleep first, him or his mother, but he dreams of beautiful landscapes and fantastic adventures and his father somehow small like him.

He doesn't wake until he's halfway back to his room, cradled in his father's arms, his shirt wet from his father's tears.

XXX

She talks with him every day, as long as she can, though the time becomes shorter and shorter.

On the seventh day, the last day, she doesn't summon him and she doesn't speak. He's the one who goes to her side, standing as quiet and small and out of the way as he can while his father and the other adults bathe her, shift her, beg her to tell them anything else they can do to ease her suffering.

Her eyes find Enjolras', and she beckons just slightly.

He moves to the side of the bed, still quiet, never looking away.

She lays a hand on his head, strokes his hair once, twice, and then her hand falls to the bed, her eyes are still looking at him but not seeing him, and he understands, finally, what death means.

XXX

When he's six years old he breaks the arm of the neighbor boy. It makes a frightful sound, louder than he expected when he pushed the arm just that little bit beyond what it could take, and the other boy passes out. Enjolras drags the boy's body to the front door, where one of the servants fetches his father, who takes the by-then-awake and screaming child home.

His father is furious when he returns. "I have taught you better, boy. What were you _thinking_? How could you deliberately—"

"He was laughing at my hair." Enjolras meets his father's blue eyes evenly, his chin held high. "He said that it's long, like a girl's, and that I must be weak, like a girl."

His father blinks at him, bending down and reaching out to finger Enjolras' shoulder-length locks. "I… suppose your hair has gotten rather long. I'm sorry. I should have noticed and had it cut, but…"

But his father has been only half-there for the last year, a drifting ghost looking for a soul that is no longer present, standing often over the small grave where Enjolras' mother is buried.

His father's expression hardens. "But that is no excuse for deliberating hurting another person, especially that badly. What if his arm doesn't heal properly? What if you had done more damage, if the bone broke skin and it became infected and he died? You have to _think_, boy, before you act. You have to consider what could come of it. Is a bit of teasing worth another's life?"

"He punched me first." Enjolras can feel tears pricking at his eyes and blinks them away. He will not cry. Crying is not the way to earn his father's respect. "I wanted to show him that I wasn't weak. That he couldn't expect to hit me and get away with it."

His father frowns. "Where did he hit you?"

Enjolras points to the still slightly sore spot high on his left cheek, a spot that his blond bangs hang over and cover until he pushes them back.

"It is red and swollen there." His father's voice is grim as his fingers press around the bruise. "That does change things, if you weren't the aggressor. You've a right to defend yourself. But you still must consider the potential cost of your actions. Do you think Sean deserves to die for punching you?"

Enjolras considers the question for several long seconds before shaking his head. "No. But it's also wrong for him to hit people because they're small and he thinks they can't fight back. Not everyone my size is as good at fighting as I am."

"No, they're not." His father smiles. "And you're quite right. If Sean's parents won't teach him properly to consider others, someone else has to. But what you did was… excessive. Do you understand that?"

"I do." Enjolras thinks he understands, at least. "Hitting him was all right; breaking his arm was bad."

"I…" His father's face twists, first into a frown and then into a smile. "I suppose, yes. Punishment should always fit the crime. And always take into account the extenuating circumstances. Have I taught you what extenuating means yet? Good. Well, then. What punishment do you think his crime deserved?"

Enjolras considers. "Being hit back. And no dinner, because he started it. And maybe having to write an apology. But not a broken arm."

"I would accept that punishment." His father's hand cups his face. "And your punishment?"

He almost says no punishment. Then he looks into his father's eyes and sighs. "No dinner. And maybe writing an apology."

"Mm, not an apology, I don't think." Standing again, his father shakes his head. "You taught a lesson, though you did so excessively, and I don't want to undo that lesson. I'll talk with Sean's parents about his behavior. You shall go to bed without dinner tonight, and you shall write me a one-page essay about what you will do should a similar situation occur in the future."

Enjolras sighs but nods. "Yes, father."

His father's hand reaches out, toys briefly with the end of a lock of Enjolras' hair. There is resignation and regret in the man's voice when he speaks again. "And tomorrow I will have your hair cut in the latest fashion."

"No."

"No?" His father looks taken aback, then smiles. "But—"

"I'm not weak. I'm not a woman." Enjolras grapples with getting his ideas in the right order. "I like my hair. Why should I cut it because someone else doesn't like it or thinks it represents something it doesn't?"

"There is no correlation between weakness and womanhood, just for the record. Your mother was one of the strongest people I have ever known." Once more his father runs a hand through Enjolras' hair. "But you're quite right. You should not change anything about yourself just because others wish it, not if you like yourself the way you are."

"I do." Enjolras smiles. "And I like my hair. I'll have the essay ready for you by bedtime, father."

His father nods, and Enjolras takes that as his dismissal.

XXX

Enjolras' father doesn't drink often, but he always drinks heavily on the anniversary of Enjolras' mother's death.

Enjolras doesn't like it. He doesn't like the way the servants tsk and shake their heads and watch him with pity in their eyes on that night. He doesn't like the way his father stares vacantly ahead, his lips sometimes moving as though talking to someone who isn't there. He doesn't like the way his father cries on that night, often, his head buried in his hands, great wrenching sobs that shake Enjolras' world.

He always watches over his father on that night, though. His mother didn't tell him to take care of his father, not in so many words, but he's learned over the years that it's expected of him, and he loves the man dearly enough that he doesn't mind.

When he's ten years old, his father calls him over to his side, the first time he's ever acknowledged Enjolras' presence on this anniversary.

His father gathers Enjolras into his arms, hauls him up onto his lap as though Enjolras were a smaller child, and kisses his forehead. Hands stroke through his hair, never cut since his mother's death, now half-way down his back. "You have her hair. Did you know that? You have her hair, and my eyes."

"She told me." Enjolras speaks quietly, not sure what words will upset his father on this night. "But I never saw her hair."

"You did. Not for long, though." Tears fill his father's eyes. "She was so beautiful before you were born, child. The most beautiful woman in the world, I said, and it might well have been true. She would get rashes, sometimes, and have dizzy spells, but never too bad, never so bad as after she had you…"

Something cold slithers through Enjolras' gut, and he swallows, hard. "Do you mean… was her illness my fault?"

"What?" His father's eyes focus on him, and then he shakes his head. "No, of course not. She wanted you. She loved you. We both did—do—and I am so glad to still have you. Looking so much like her, like me but like her."

"Your eyes." Enjolras' voice is a quiet whisper. "Her hair."

"Yes." His father strokes Enjolras' hair, just once more. "Her hair, my eyes, but very much your own fiery soul. The best of us and then something better."

"Something better." Enjolras frowns. "Why do you think I'm better?"

"Because the future should always be better than the past. Because what will come should always shine brighter than what has been." His father pauses, slowly releasing his hold on Enjolras. "Because I'm drunk, and I'm being a poor father at the moment. I'm sorry, son. I'll do better."

Reaching up to pat his father's hair, Enjolras shakes his head gravely. "You're the best father I could ever have."

For some reason that makes his father cry again.

Enjolras sits quietly in the man's lap, patting his hair, allowing his father to stroke Enjolras' hair, until the sobs finally stop.

It's the last time his father drinks on the anniversary of her death, and the last time his father touches Enjolras' hair.

XXX

The next time Enjolras breaks a man's arm is when he's fourteen.

The sixteen year old boy he fought with thought he was pretty. The older boy thought he was weak.

The sixteen year old thought he was asking for it, with golden hair down to his butt and eyes the color of the sky and a build more feminine than masculine.

Enjolras doesn't explain to his teachers why he did it, but there's enough speculation and rumor around that he isn't expelled but instead placed on probation and commanded to cut his hair.

He refuses.

That's when his father gets involved.

He waits for his father patiently, and stands to greet the man with a small bow. "Father."

His father sighs, leaning heavily on the cane at his side. "Explain to me why I am here, son."

"Because I have refused the school's request, and the only way for you to get the full story and decide what your course of action will be was to come and see me." Enjolras stands at easy attention, his hands clasped gently behind his back.

"And?" His father gestures with one hand. "Enlighten me as to why you cannot do what they ask… why you _should_ not."

"Because to cut my hair for them would be to say that I had done something wrong, that I deserved what was done to me, that challenging social custom in any way is tantamount to inviting physical violence upon oneself." Enjolras meets his father's gaze, realizing with a start that he has grown since he last saw the man and that they are now nearly the same height. "I will not do that."

"Explain the incident to me." His father settles into a chair, gesturing for Enjolras to do the same.

Enjolras sits, frowning, and then decides that the totality of the truth is the best that he can offer to his father. "The boy whose arm I broke intended to rape me. There were several others watching."

His father stiffens, and for a moment Enjolras sees a fire and hatred and horror there that he has never seen before. "_What?_"

"He said that he intended to see exactly how good a woman I would make." Enjolras keeps his head high. "I showed him what the price of forcing oneself upon another is, be that other male or female."

"They know of this?" His father stands, pacing the confines of the room, agitation in his voice. "They know of this, and their response is—is—"

"I will not do it, father." Enjolras' voice is steady. "I would prefer to continue my education as well, though."

"And you shall. I will see to it." His father finally stops his pacing, reaching out to place a hand on Enjolras' shoulder. "And the next time someone touches you with the intent to hurt you like that, kill them."

It's not the lecture that six-year-old Enjolras received.

He is no longer a child, though, and neither are those who assault him.

"I will try to see that the punishment fits the crime." Enjolras smiles up at his father. "It's what a good man once taught me."

His father smiles, just a bit, though there is weariness in his eyes as he turns away.

Enjolras doesn't cut his hair.

No one ever mentions it to him again at school.

XXX

Neither Combeferre nor Courfeyrac asks him about his hair during their first year as friends.

He expects them to. Others have asked. Most seem to think it a natural part of their first or second conversation with Enjolras.

Not those two, though. Their first conversation was about the Republic—and magnetism. Their second was about the 1789 revolution—and whales—and when it was ethical to use legal loopholes and when it wasn't.

It's not until a year into their friendship, when they're well on their way to becoming leaders of their own cell of Republicans, that the two of them ask him about his hair.

They've been working late, sharing a candle in Combeferre's apartment, and Combeferre has kindly agreed to let the other two stay so long as they don't mind sharing a rather cramped sleeping space. Neither of them does, and Enjolras reaches back to unbind his hair, allowing the long blond locks to fall into a puddle on the bed. If he stands his hair reaches almost to his knees, now, though he usually keeps it braided or otherwise tied so that it doesn't go much past his mid-back.

Courfeyrac's hand strays idly toward the strands on the bed, and then stops. "Would you mind if I touched it?"

Enjolras considers before shrugging. "No."

It's odd, watching Courfeyrac touch his hair, occasionally feeling a faint tug when the roots are pulled but otherwise not feeling anything.

"Would you like me to brush it?" Combeferre murmurs the words, settling on the other side of Enjolras from Courfeyrac and reaching up to run a hand gently along Enjolras' head. "To get out some of the tangles?"

Enjolras hesitates. "Why?"

"Because it's beautiful." Courfeyrac braids a few strands of hair together, then pulls them apart again.

"Because I would like to." Combeferre's hand stills. "Why do you keep it so long?"

There are many reasons. They've melded and blended over the years, becoming a part of him, inseparable. He doesn't know if he could even untangle all the threads that have woven together.

The heart of all of it, though, is very simple. "Because I like it long."

Courfeyrac smiles. "Well, I think I like it long, too."

"And me, as well." Combeferre has procured a brush from somewhere, and Enjolras closes his eyes as the others work on combing out his hair for him.

It's the first time anyone outside his family has touched his hair with respect, with love, with joy.

It's something that he thinks he could get used to.


End file.
